ArchivedLogs:Weird People

Weird People
Dramatis Personae Anole, Peter
In Absentia	2013-07-27 '
Location <XS> Boys' Bathroom - FL2
Bright and clean, this bathroom is designed for communal use. Toilets and sinks to one side, showers on the other. The shower stalls are wide, designed with space inside for hanging clothes and changing. The sinks have, by habit, had space claimed by them with people's own personal toiletries, a small basket of goods here, a toothbrush and toothpaste there, a large overflowing basket there, name tags appended to all of them. The biggest wars seem to be over shower space, mornings a constant battle over claiming stalls first. Peter's likely lended Anole all sorts of things necessary for /cleaning/; shower supplies, toothbrushes (Peter has a spare!), towels, shampoos -- even clothes, if he needs them! Anole likely arrived in the showers first, before Peter -- who's actually a bit of a late-morning riser, slumping into the bathroom on a lazy Saturday with his eyes bleary and his hair so tussled it looks like it's in the process of trying to fly away. Peter's clad in only his Superman boxer-shorts and fluffy, floofy slippers; he slept like a log. He's got a towel in one arm, along with a plastic baggy full of his hygiene supplies -- toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, shampoo. Under the flourescent lighting of the bathroom, he /gleams/ -- kind of like how you'd expect a well-polished chrome to look. With maybe just a hint of sparkly, prismatic flickering -- like a low-key bicycle reflecter. "Nnm-nngmh," he begins, lumbering up to the sink and THROWING his things on it. CLUNK. Anole has been here for a /long/ time. The bathroom mirrors are steamed up from his extended shower. He has been scrubbing (and scrubbing! And scrubbing! Sewers are hard to wash /off/) for ages; the scrubbing part is through now, though, and now he is just /basking/ in the glory of hot running water. "Nnm-nngmh?" comes an echoed voice from inside one of the shower stalls; there's a splish of wet feet on tile, a tiny crack open in one of the stall doors. "Oh it's you hi! I was. Afraid someone would yell. Peter the water /doesn't run out/." He sounds /so excited/ about this. "It just stays hot! -- oh. Oh wow you're -- shiny, wow." Through that crack the bright green eye that can be seen opens wider, and then the door closes again. "--nnngmhghn," Peter responds to Anole, kind of blankly, kind of confusedly, turning toward that stall to just stare at it -- as if he's trying to REASSEMBLE a tattered set of puzzlepieces into a coherent whole. Anole? Is here? Why is Anole h--OH. Right. "Anole," Peter says, aloud, as if reminding himself; he then proceeds to /grin/ at comment about shininess. "Yes. I am," Peter admits, before turning back to the mirror. "--/very/ shiny. Even more when I get wet, even /more/ in sunlight -- I /sparkle/. Uh -- not like. A vampire sparkle though," and then the grin is fading as if he just remembered this. "--also yes we have so much water here, and--/wow/ right you. Sewers. Oh man, I guess. Showers are kind of -- hard, down there." "There's not a lot of showers down there, no," Anole's voice comes from behind the door. "You're /really really shiny/ um -- are you /sure/ you're not a vampire because I have it on really good authority that vampires are /also/ really sparkly. And you do sometimes? Get -- kind of bitey? On Shane anyway. Are you a Shanepire?" "--bitey. On--" Peter's cheeks proceed to /burn/ violet as he produces his toothbrush; he's grinning right through it, though. "Oh my /God/ that's. Adorable. Who told you that. I sometimes bite Shane? I sometimes bite Shane," Peter admits, immediately /after/ demanding to know about this. "--it feels kind of weird to just. Talk to people about that. Like it's just normal. I mean, weird in a good way, I used to be really -- uptight about. Sometimes," Peter finishes, the violet turning indigo, "Shane bites /me/." "Shane told me," Anole admits. "He says a lot of things. Um --" There's quiet, from inside the shower. "/Is/ that weird, do you -- I mean I don't know a lot of people who -- you two are really." This all just trails off in to nothing. "... Shane biting seems like it would hurt more," he says instead, a little bit awkwardly. "Your teeth are not like his teeth." "--oh, yeah, Shane /would/ tell you wouldn't he, he's pretty much. Open about -- you know he told my parents that we --" Peter almost /giggles/ behind this announcement. "--mmnnI don't know if it's -- weird. I used to think, probably. But now I just know -- I like it, so. He's all kinds of, um, wonderful." The indigo remains firmly settled on Peter's face. "--you know he would /totally/ bite you, too, if you wanted," Peter adds, maaaaybe just a little teasingly. "He bites gentle-like. On account of the teeth I actually. Probably bite a lot harder." He shoves his toothbrush into his mouth and just starts /mowing/ with it. Brushbrushbrush, into a thick foam. "Told your parents what?" The water finally shuts off, with a small sigh from behind the door. There's a splish of feet, a rustling of towel. "-- Bite /me/? But you're his -- bitingperson," Anole sounds kind of confused, now. Still kind of awkward. "I don't really -- I mean it seems kind of --" There's a long hesitation before he changes his mind to say instead: "-- actually I don't even know what normal is now. I think I would've used to think they were really weird. Maybe I still think they're really weird. But maybe this is all. Kind of. Weird." Peter brushes for a few more seconds before, SPIT SPIT SPIT. Then his head is under the spigot, gathering up water to swish, and spit some more. "That we, uh, y'know, have," and here, Peter's indigo reaches its peak as he struggles with the word, speaking it very quietly: "--sex. Um. Sorry." Apologizing! For /speaking/ it. "And yeah, I know but Shane's -- you know he. Doesn't actually. Give a crap about -- um he's not." Peter struggles for the right words again, kind of just staring at the mirror: "--he bites other people. And it doesn't bother me," he quickly rushes to add! "--it's, kind of weird? Because I sometimes think maybe -- it's /supposed/ to bother me? But -- it totally doesn't. I'm fine with. Him biting anyone, actually. He's--" Peter turns, facing the shower stall; he props himself up against the sink, kind-of-leaning, toothbrush in hand, mouth wrinkled half-way between a frown and a smile: "--yeah. It's all. Really weird. But I think it's. Good? I'm," Peter starts, pauses, and finishes with: "--happy." For a long moment there's quiet from inside the stall. "-- Oh," Anole says eventually, smaller, "Right, um, Right. That. Of course. Sorry. -- er --" There's more silence, or near-silence as he shuffles himself into some (borrowed! Clean!) clothes, eventually unlocking the stall again to peek back out. Kiiind of wide-eyed. "-- er, sorry, are we talking about -- /actual/ biting other people now or, um," smaller-voiced, "-- sex?" His skin has flushed darker green still, eyes dipping back down to the ground rather than linger too long on Peter. Though they dart up intermittently, just -- tiny glances, and then away. "-- Happy. Happy is good. I'm -- glad, you're all --" His mouth curls into a crooked smile. "Weird! But really -- really nice." "--um," Peter says, at that question. /Also/ still flushed -- well, indigo. The coloration extends down his throat, and threatens to spill across his sternum! "--the latter. Uh, thing." Peering at his /feet/ rather than at Anole. But at the latter comment, Peter's eyes drag up from his feet, settling on Anole! A little bit more brightly, the flush starting to get stifled. "--yeah. I -- you know you." Something /twitches/ in Peter's expression; his tone is a little clenched. "You saved Sebastian, down there. Um, with your tongue -- I think he was. You... thank you," he says, releasing both a breath and the sudden tension that's risen up in his shoulders. "/Thank/ you," he repeats, and suddenly he is -- stepping forward! Arm extended for Anole's shoulder. "-- /Oh/," is quiet again. The green in Anole's cheeks deepens. For a moment before that thanks comes he disappears behind the door again, but soon emerges. Shirtless, borrowed shorts held up by belt onto his skinny hips. Still a little bit damp around the carapace, his scales somewhat gleaming, too, now that they've been shed of their habitual coating of filth. His borrowed towel and toiletries are bundled together, clutched in his arms, a shirt resting atop all of them. His head ducks under the touch, eyes dropping to the ground again. "/Me/? Oh I don't -- I don't know, you're all -- kind of. Much better at -- the twins are /really/ hardcore I don't think. Any of you really. Needed me there he would've --" His head shakes. "... that was scary." Once Peter has Anole's shoulder, he /pulls/ -- sharp and firm, dragging him toward his chest to just scoop him into his grip and hug. Head descending for a shoulder, /squeezing/ his fingers around Anole's back and spine. "Anole," Peter says, mouth muffled against his clavicle, "Sebastian would be /dead/ if you hadn't -- thank you," he just repeats, still squeezing. "--we're worried, about you, and." Peter is still not releasing! "Just. We want to help you? If you need anything some of the stuff we've been through I /still/ am kind of a wreck and I've actually been in a school with counselors and stuff you've been. On the /streets/ this whole time and, and. If there's -- anything you need. We want -- tell us, okay? Please." "No, Bastian can't -- die that's ridiculous." Anole's eyes widen at the sudden hug; his arms full of THINGS he doesn't return it, squeezing his bundle closer to his chest. He does lean /into/ it, though, a little tentatively. "Worried about me? I'm -- fine, we didn't -- I mean they shot /at/ us but nobody got hurt I --" He turns his head, pressing the side of his face to the side of Peter's. "It's fine, right? We got out. It's okay now." "--yeah, just. We got out. Everybody's alive," Peter agrees, pressing the side of his face back! There is something /possessive/ about his hug, now; he actually starts to lift Anole. A little off the ground. "--did you hear about. Nox? On the news, and. Just so much -- terrible stuff I guess I'm just worried. You might be -- you should. Stay here," Peter says, voice suddenly quiet-fierce. "They went in the sewers with /guns/ you need to stay safe." Then, with just a little more meekness: "...but I mean. Only if you want to we just... I'm just worried. You should come. To counseling. With me. Maybe." "-- I heard about Nox." This comes out much tinier, very /shaky/, giving complete lie to Anole's insistence ten seconds prior that he was fine. "I heard that they -- ohgodPeter/Nox/," his face mooshes harder down into Peter's shoulder. "They didn't even. Give her a trial or /anything/ after -- after everything they /did/ to her they --" His bundle of things is released -- perhaps to fall to the floor or perhaps just be /smooshed/ between them so that he can wrap his arms back around Peter tightly. "-- counseling?" This sounds confused. "I know," Peter says, much more softly; he's /pulling/, now -- drawing Anole back away from the shower, letting the shower supplies tumble to the floor. A hand on the center of his back; the other at the nape of his neck, fingers curling, pressing him closer as Anole's face squishes against his glossy shoulder. Peter is /definitely/ lifting Anole, now; he's holding him up in the air with ease, pressing his mouth down against one of the stubbier headspikes. "I'm so sorry, Anole. They just. Came with guns and. It's okay to be messed up over this. It /is/ so messed up. It's..." Peter pauses at the mention of counseling; his mouth presses down where the skull-carapace gives way to scales and skin. "It's this thing, where you go and. Talk to somebody about terrible stuff that's happened and try to just. Figure out ways to not -- explode. They're really good here I told them. All about the time when I was in the Fight Club thing and -- and it helps, I think. To just -- be able to /talk/ to someone about. This stuff. You can," Peter adds, much more quietly, along with a fierce /press/ to the side of Anole's face, "talk to me. Us. Anyone." Anole's face presses harder to Peter's shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut tightly. "-- She took me in when I came. When I got to New York I didn't -- have anyone and she --" His head shakes, words muffling as his mouth presses to Peter's glossy chitin. "But then there was that horrible -- police -- /thing/ and she kind of. Broke, and -- and then they shut the tunnels /down/ and I couldn't -- even go /home/ and I -- but then I thought it'd be okay. When I finally -- got back and then. But. But they /broke/ her and then they /killed/ her and." This ends in a ragged gasp of sob. "... and sometimes I just. Want to go. Home." Now, Peter's sinking; dropping into a slow crouching kneel beside the shower stall, nuzzling against Anole's cheek as he talks. Arms trying to /envelope/ him as tightly as he can manage. Squeezing and cradling him against his chest. "...oh, Anole," he says, his own voice hitched, tense; something spasming near the end of it. "Anole I'm so sorry I... don't even know. How hard that must be. For you to --" Peter draws in a ragged breath, his voice strangled. "--we can. Try to keep you safe, here, okay? We --" A hint of color; Peter's hand grips the back of Anole's head, very slightly rocking. "--love you." Anole quiets. Not crying, not talking, not doing anything but sinking down to the ground along with Peter, his face pressed up against Peter's chest. Slow breath in. Slow breath out. "Please don't cry," he says eventually, fingers pressing against Peter's back. "-- I mean I guess you can -- cry if you need to cry actually just. I don't. This isn't. I'll be fine and you have -- people here and -- I think it'll be okay." He doesn't, admittedly, sound all that /certain/. "...you," Peter says, suddenly reeling back and -- delivering a kiss to Anole's forehead! With a weak, shaky grin. "--need to worry about yourself more. I'm. Sorry," he soon adds, that grin evaporating, his forehead pressing up against Anole's, face tipped back. "It's been a rough few days and -- but it's been even /worse/ for you and. I just. Holy /crap/ I've been breaking down a lot recently I think I need to go in for like a tuneup or something. Also a shower," he adds. "It's okay," Anole manages a small smile, here, squeezing Peter close. "Things have been really terrible for you it's -- sometimes falling apart is okay. I think that the -- tuneups, I think that's what. We're for." The smile curls into a little bit wider of a grin. "-- Showers are the /best thing/ though I don't. Blame you for wanting a shower I -- kind of just want to move in. To the showers." "Yeah," Peter agrees, and this is followed up with a small head-butt. "Yeah, I don't. Don't know what I wouldn't do without--" There is a tiny tremble of something, here, like the very /thought/ might make Peter kind of. Break down again. But then the tremble disappears, replaced with a tight /squeeze/ at Anole's grin. Peter grins back. "When I got out of Fight Club," he admits, "I realized just how much I /missed/ showers oh my God they're amazing. The twins sleep in a /pool/ you know. You could. Sleep in a shower, maybe, or maybe the lake. Or--oh," Peter says, eyes widening just a /bit/. "--oh, /right/, I built -- did anyone. Tell you about -- how well do you thermoregulate?" Goodness, Peter. So /crass/! "I think I would drown I um -- I don't have gills like them. It'd be worth it, though," Anole says wistfully. "To just have the shower /forever/." He's turned to eye it like he is very seriously contemplating getting back in! "-- Thermoregulate?" His head shakes. "I -- pretty much don't, it's kind of bad. I'm not good at that." This admission comes with a deep blush. "I guess I'm," he admits awkwardly like this is Big Secret, "A /little/ lizardy." "OhmyGod you're adorable," Peter decides, at this latter confession. He makes this statement /very/ seriously, like he has just come upon this revelation only now. He even gives Anole a /tiny/ shake. Tiny tiny. "--but yeah, I don't. Um, I don't. Sweat? Neither do the twins," and Peter blushes at this admission himself! Violet. "--so thermoregulation is a problem for us too and uh you know how I got /shot/ down there but it didn't even /penetrate/ well that's because I wear body-armor but it's really hot in there so one of the things Sebastian helped me build was a suit that thermoregulates and I /bet/ we could. Um maybe. Make you one. If you. Wanted." The words are a rush of speed near the beginning, but slow down near the end -- if Peter's struggling to get them out. "--and, um, yeah." For /some/ reason, his violet has intensified, fluctuating steadily between that and indigo. "Mewhat." Anole's eyes widen, his cheeks flushing deeper green. "-- You're bad at it, too?" This actually puts a smile on his face, though in the next moment he ducks his head sheepishly. "Sorry I shouldn't. Be happy about that um. Sorrysorry. You have a -- /suit/? That /thermoregulates/ /and/ is /body armour/ oh -- oh my god. Oh my god are you and Bastian /Lucius Fox/?" "--yes," Peter responds, /very/ seriously. "Yes, we are. We work at Stark Towers and we build /amazing/ things Anole, and it's totally awesome and amazing and we will all. Have thermoregulation suits and /fight crime/. Or just. Thermoregulate. Better. And." And now, suddenly, Peter is tugging Anole up! Back to his feet. "--and you should. Stay here, with us. For a while, until things. Get -- calmer, at least. Okay? I mean, you don't have to, but. You can have all the showers here you want, and..." And? Peter doesn't seem to finish this last bit, letting it trail off. "-- Is Tony Stark /Batman/?" It's hard for Anole's eyes to get any bigger, but his tone is hushed, edged with a very /serious/ excitement. "... I don't think I'd be good at fighting crime," he says a little more meekly, "but I'd like to not overheat in summer." He wriggles himself up to his feet at Peter's tugging, stooping afterwards to collect his fallen toiletries. Or -- Peter's fallen toiletries, anyway, that he is borrowing. "-- And --?" "--he. /Might/ be," Peter admits, grinning at the thought. Before -- as Anole straightens from gathering the various showering sundries -- he delivers a quick peck to Anole's mouth; sudden and swift and /darting/. "--and. We can -- help you. Stay safe," Peter says, embarassedly. Anole's eyes shoot open wide at that peck, cheeks darkening to deep green. He promptly drops all his things right back onto the floor, towel thwumping into a damp heap as the toiletries scatter. "..." His mouth opens and then closes again, in abruptly startled silence. "...oh. Oh," Peter says, and now /his/ eyes are big and huge, a little terrified; his hands lift up in front of him, as if to ward off Anole's ensuing /battlerage/. Or maybe just worried that Anole's going to meltdown: "Oh listen I -- I'm sorry. Anole, I just kind of. Was -- impulse. Impulsive? Look it's okay I won't. I mean -- do that again if you don't -- I kind of just. I'm /really/ sorry please don't -- be angry? Or -- I'm /really/ sorry if that was. Um. Weird. Um." Peter looks at the objects on the ground; his fingers begin itching, resisting the urge to just dart down and start scooping them up. "...oh," Anole is saying almost in tandem with Peter, "Oh." His hand lifts, too, his knuckles pressing to his mouth, and if he is about to have /battlerage/ he shows it very poorly. Huge eyes, an uncertain rocking step backwards. A step just as uncertain, forwards, now. "Oh -- oh I'm sorry I'm sorry I didn't that was just. /Surprising/, I didn't -- nobody's ever, I've never -- um. I'm sorry I don't -- maybe that was weird? I don't know I think it was -- also. Nice." Peter sucks in a tiny breath as Anole's hand brushes his knuckles across his mouth; he holds it while Anole speaks -- and releases it at that last word. Violet turns indigo; Peter rocks back on his own feet, weight shifting to the soles, then back to the toes. "...oh, um," he repeats, eyes focused on the objects that have scattered to the floor as he rocks back and forth -- finally managing to tear them up and away, settling them on Anole. "--okay," he says, a little breathlessly, before: "--should I. Can I -- do it again?" "... do you -- want to?" Anole's voice has dropped small again, eyes still wide, cheeks still dark. But there's a very tentative smile tugging hopefully at his mouth. At this question, Peter responds by suddenly stepping forward. Closer to Anole. A hand reaches for the side of Anole's jaw, fingers cradling the back of it, thumb against his chin -- and he darts forward, delivering /another/ peck. Except, it is less /darting/ and more persistent; he holds it for nearly half a second, just scraping lips before pulling back. Breath suddenly a bit quick. "...yes," Peter says, a moment after. Then: "...this is. Very new to me. But." Another dart forward, his head dipping, tilting; Peter's mouth makes contact with Anole's, just holding the pressure there for several seconds. "Oh --" This is very soft, again. Anole's mouth presses clumsily back to Peter's, his breath quickening, too. Very tentatively, his hand moves to rest on Peter's hip, dropping away only once he breaks off to step back slightly. There's a smile on his face, small; his eyes drop to the floor but lift soon after to Peter. "-- Oh," comes a little bit breathier, on the edge of a laugh. "-- Oh. /Oh/, I think I'm -- one of the weird people /too/." "...this is," Peter says, through a crooked, violet-faced grin, "kind of weird. Isn't it. Um. This is actually," he admits, "the second time? This has happened to me um. I actually didn't think I -- wanted -- I mean. Until I met Shane I..." Peter steps /forward/; his own hand reaches out for Anole's retreating hand, taking it firmly. "Tell me if," Peter continues, his voice suddenly firm as he brings Anole's hand /back/ to the side of his hip, pressing it there, "it gets /too/ weird. And I promise I'll stop. Okay?" By then, Peter's other hand is moving to grip Anole by the back of his neck, and -- this time, when Peter kisses, there's more than just pressure -- he eases Anole back into the shower stall, his foot reaching back to catch the door -- and quietly shut it behind him.